There are few cities that speak to me like the city of New York.
There is a special place in my heart for the dancing lights of Times Square, the fresh bagels and cinnamon rolls on every corner before the sun comes up, and the incredible window displays that go well beyond advertising shoes, more like the promise of glamour for the rest of your life. The city’s pulse always seems to be racing; everyone in New York is going somewhere, and it is a beat I still miss.
On a recent trip to my beloved city, from the moment I hailed my first taxi, Frank Sinatra’s homage to the city that never sleeps danced through my head. Oh yes, “It is up to you, New York, New York.”
My trip was a whirlwind. I was in and out in 26 hours. Just enough time for three important meetings, a quick hello to an old friend, and lots of stolen glances of all the activities I wished I had time to enjoy.
Sometime just before my last appointment of the day the New York sky opened up. Now, I have experienced summer rain in New York but this was no afternoon shower. The sky was dark and ominous and the drops turned into heavy pelts and the streets rushed with water.
As I departed Rockefeller Plaza, thunder and heavy rain sent everyone into nearby buildings for shelter. By the time I arrived back at my hotel to grab my bags and head to the airport, it was pouring.
New York City boasts over 13,000 yellow cabs but on a rainy day, you are guaranteed to find none. After more than 10 minutes of waiting on a corner, I must have caught five people selling $3 umbrellas for the bargain rate of $20 but not one taxi. I was growing concerned about missing my flight and started feeling a little desperate.
Finally, a town car caught my pleading looks, or maybe it was my arm flailing in the air, and stopped. Breathlessly, I explained that I needed to get to LaGuardia as fast as possible. The driver muttered one word, but “fine” was all I needed. Rather than pulling over to the curb he stopped in the middle of the lane, forcing me to cross into oncoming traffic and stayed seated in his weatherproof car while I wrestled with his trunk, my luggage, and a useless $20 umbrella (in three inch heels).
By the time I sat down, I was soaked. My new friend spoke very little and his only acknowledgement of me was to thrust a large plastic trash bag my way. Given my soaked appearance, I might have looked like a bag lady but I was at a loss as to what to do with my new gift.
“What do you want me to do with this bag?” I asked.
“For my seat. You are wet.”
Well, didn’t I just mention how much I love New York. The folks are so friendly around here. I begrudgingly moved my soaked self onto the plastic bag and since conversation had been such a non-starter turned to my blackberry to pass the time.
Now, I mentioned that in the rain, taxis become scarce but did I also mention that traffic becomes heavy? I could now see all 13,000 cabs on the road in front of us. In 25 minutes, I think we moved two blocks.
With my departure time nearing, I voiced my concerns to my silent driver. The driver with little to say suddenly started shouting a thousand words that I couldn't follow. I caught something about “another way” and “only way to make” and “not his fault” so I just replied “yes, yes and yes.” I mean, how bad could it be, whatever route we took would be better than not moving at all and I definitely preferred the silent treatment over the yelling.
While I do not boast a keen sense of direction, I did sense that we were moving farther and farther away from the bridge that I routinely take to LaGuardia. I contemplated voicing this concern but figured it was pointless given I had no idea how to get there anyway. Back to my blackberry.
After about 20 minutes of break slamming, horn honking, speed racing I looked up. Somewhere far behind us sat the city I had come to know and love and we were surrounded by graffiti, businesses flanked with steel bars and lots of police cars. Now it was time to voice my concern.
I pulled out my stern voice, “Where are we and where is LaGuardia airport?” I was met with the one word reply, “Going.” Well, going wasn’t good enough for me but what was the alternative? I suppose he could drop me off on the corner. No thanks.
Seconds later I heard a loud whistle. And then my driver came through crystal clear, “You. Duck.”
If you are driving through a part of town where you may not feel entirely comfortable, duck is likely the very last thing you want to hear, but I did. My pulse was pounding and I could hear lots of shouting outside of the car.
After a long wait, I was assured I could sit back up. He said something about a traffic stop. Outside of the window I noted that this traffic stop required 10 cop cars surrounding one vehicle. Well, this was a part of New York that I hadn’t seen.
Fifteen minutes and one minor heart attack later, we pulled up to the curb at LaGuardia. I wanted to kiss the wet ground. I handed the driver my credit card and proceeded to step out of the vehicle to retrieve my luggage.
And then came the shouting. Something about “no” and “credit cards” and “idiot.” Well, the New York I know and love, takes credit. I don’t carry cash. I dug through my wallet and came up with $9 and a partially used gift card, I offered these items to my driver along with my business card with a promise to send payment in cash. Well, apparently promises fall in the same category as credit, unacceptable. More yelling followed by threats of calling the police.
At this moment, I longed for the emergency $100 my dad taught me to carry. Unfortunately, it was used several emergencies back.
The only solution was an ATM. The security officer at the curb assured me that there was an ATM inside the airport but my driver refused to release my belongings without payment. I was late, frustrated and panicked and didn’t appreciate the fact that my shoes were being held hostage.
I let him have it. “Don’t confuse my southern accent. I may sound nice but I will call the police if you steal my stuff and I will not leave my wallet or my computer behind. You can keep my suitcase but if you open it, I will report you to the bureau.” The bureau of what, I have no idea but I hoped I sounded tough and convincing.
We finally agreed that he could keep my suitcase and ID to ensure that I couldn’t board a plane without paying him. Obviously, he had no idea how much I valued my shoes. I jotted down his license plate and said a little prayer.
I raced through the terminal toward the general direction of the phantom ATM. As I rounded the corner, I caught a line of seven people who looked equally frustrated and late. I poured on the southern charm, which proved pointless until I explained that my belongings were being held hostage by a driver who refused to give me his phone number. Apparently everyone seemed to relate. I ran back outside with $100 in cash.
As I burst through the double doors, there stood my driver with the police. What on earth, I was trying to pay him for crying out loud. False alarm. Apparently the officer was only asking him to move his vehicle.
I handed over the cash and claimed my belongings. I thanked the officer and the oh-so-friendly driver who once again allowed me to retrieve my luggage. The officer looked down at my feet and asked “How do you walk in those?”
Apparently some days more gracefully than others.
